


approximately forever

by onceuponamoon



Series: abo jt/ebs [7]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Car Sex, Jealousy, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Possessive Behavior, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 11:25:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14307633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponamoon/pseuds/onceuponamoon
Summary: John’s never been any good at pool, but he’s competitive as shit and so is literally everyone else, so it’s a mix of good fun and super obnoxious.  He breaks, sinks a single stripe, then chokes and has to pass the cue to Hickey, trying not to smirk at the look of pride on Jordan’s face.He’s such a dork.John loves him.





	approximately forever

**Author's Note:**

> anonymous asked:
> 
> AHH I LOVE YOUR JOHN/JORDAN SERIES! IT'S PERFECTION!!! I GET EXCITED EVERYTIME I GET A NOTIFICATION THAT YOU ADDED ANOTHER STORY! so prompt wise I would love to see either one of them jealous or like super protective of the other. Like it can be as angsty or fluffy as you want but I just...I need to see more of these two dorks in love and you're amazing and I love you. Thanks!
> 
>  
> 
> this one's for you, anon! as always, feel free to comment or send more [prompts](http://onceuponamoonfic.tumblr.com)!

**December 2017**

 

They _annihilate_ the Jets thanks to Barzy’s hatty and John’s too keyed up to want to go home, so he actually agrees to Cal’s prodding about going out for beers with the boys to celebrate. 

It’s surprisingly mild out for December in Brooklyn, and when John says as much, Jordan just repeats him using a funny voice. The blow’s softened by the way he tucks himself into John’s side, of course, so John only rolls his eyes instead of shoving Jordan off the sidewalk. Half the guys who’d made noises about going end up bailing; with Christmas Eve right around the corner, John definitely doesn’t blame them, so it ends up just being a small handful of them. 

Cal’s never one to turn down IPAs and Hickey, Zeeker, and Anders want to treat the rookies.

(John turns a blind eye to the fact that Barzy and Beau use fakes to get in at their usual post-game bar; they’re legal in Canada, so whatever.)

Once they find a spot for their rowdy group to hang, Anders says, “Shots?” and Barzy and Beau yell back, “SHOTS,” and John sighs, because he really, _really_ doesn’t feel like playing captain right now. His alpha had a 3-point night and all he wants to do is drape himself all over him to show him just how proud he is. 

So, John says, “You’re getting them home, then, bud.”

Anders sighs, but agrees and then heads off to the bar to put in their order. Cal’s already perusing the menu to pick out whatever beer’s either local or the most pretentious, or both, and Zeeker’s trying to wrestle Hicks into playing a game of pool.

Jordan, though, is content to just lean into John’s side and prattle to the rookies about how great they’re doing, always happy to play proud alpha even though they don’t need it.

(More than likely, though, John’s going to suggest they give him the A next season.)

“Johnny, John, JT,” Zeeker says. “You and Ebs against me and Hicks. Wanna go?”

And, well. Anders and Cal can keep an eye on the kids, make sure that they don’t get too tanked or try to go home with someone who’ll put their pictures up on the internet. 

“Yeah, alright,” he says, not even bothering to confirm with Jordan. He touches Jordan’s hip and Jordan sways after him, abandoning the rookies to their own devices as soon as Anders returns with their shots. 

“Rack it up,” Hicks says, and then, “Captain breaks,” just to make Zeeker pout.

John’s never been any good at pool, but he’s competitive as shit and so is literally everyone else, so it’s a mix of good fun and super obnoxious. He breaks, sinks a single stripe, then chokes and has to pass the cue to Hickey, trying not to smirk at the look of pride on Jordan’s face.

He’s such a dork.

John loves him.

It’s been all of a week since he’d said it out loud, but sometimes, even just thinking it, makes John’s heart pound like he’s doing bag skates. 

The game goes on and Cal brings over a round of beers that taste, honestly, like ass and not in a good way. As John’s frowning into it, Cal squawks about how John just can’t appreciate a good, floral hoppiness, and John retorts, “My beer shouldn’t taste like fucking flowers, Clutter.” 

“No, really,” Jordan agrees, nose wrinkled as he examines the label, “This is way too fucking flowery. Why didn’t you get that citrusy one?” 

“Because we’ve already had it.”

“So you’re going to try every single fucking IPA known to man _and_ subject us all to it when you know none of us even like the taste of hops?” Hickey shakes his head. “That’s cold, man.”

Cal scoffs and says something about, “underdeveloped taste buds,” which, whatever, John’s got a better palate for wine. 

The game goes on and eventually the rookies meander over after playing a round of darts with a pair of pretty girls -- it’s _definitely_ too packed to be able to sort out their dynamics -- but they both smell too happy to have gotten flat-out rejections.

Making eye contact with Jordan, John tips his head at them. Jordan looks and then raises an eyebrow at John, so John leans in, says, “Must’ve gotten some numbers.”

Jordan’s scent blooms up in the back of John’s throat, vanilla mottled with the sharpness of alcohol. John tugs at his shirt collar, suddenly a little warm.

“Good for them,” Jordan says. His pupils dilate a bit and he licks his lips, eyeing John’s bond-bite. “They deserve to get laid. You know who else deserves to get laid? Me. Got three whole assists tonight, you know.”

He sways a bit closer into John’s space, not quite drunk from just one shot and a couple of beers, but definitely buzzed.

John hums in agreement, says, “I do recall something like that.”

“Yooo,” Zeeker says, “Stop sucking each other’s dicks for a sec, eh? It’s your turn, Ebs.”

Jordan snorts and hands his beer to John, sinking two stripes, sauntering over with all the alpha swagger he can muster. It’s dumb, but it still makes John laugh and Jordan’s chest just puffs up with even more pride at the sound. They end up losing, because Hickey’s a _shark_ , Zeeker cheats, and Jordan’s just drunk enough to try to show off with dumb trick shots, but John can’t really find it in himself to care too much.

“Losers pay for the next round,” Hickey says, slapping Jordan’s ass after he turns him towards the bar with a hand on his shoulder.

Jordan goes with it, snickering, loose with alcohol and contentment. 

Watching him go, but trying not to be too obvious about it, John spots an open booth and ushers the rookies into it with everyone’s coats. Zeeker and Hickey have wrangled a pair of alphas into playing another game with them, but Cal and Anders follow, chirping each other about their on-ice minutes -- at least until John says, “It’s not about quantity, but quality. What did you do with those minutes, boys?”

And like, yeah, Anders got a goal, but Cal generated some good offensive plays on the backend and killed it on the backcheck. “Besides,” he continues, “Nobody can compare to our boy, Barzy -- not tonight.”

The boys all cheer, Beau shaking Barzy who just leans drunkenly into Cal, who offers a noogie.

“I can drink to that,” Anders says, “Except for how I can’t because we don’t _have any_.”

“Yeah,” Cal says, “Go find your boy, Johnny. Think he got lost.”

John sighs and scans the bar, finally landing on the back of Jordan’s head, and then gets up to go retrieve him and their wayward beers. As he nears, he’s able to see that Jordan’s got their pitchers and glasses in hand, but there’s a man talking to him and -- he’s not wearing any Islanders gear, but he’s chatting animatedly at Jordan like maybe he thinks he knows who they are or something and --

Just as John’s close enough to make eye contact with the guy -- an alpha -- over Jordan’s shoulder, Jordan’s laughing, head back and eyes crinkled. He’s gorgeous and this, this _guy_ is making his alpha laugh and --

Said guy also leans in and sniffs deeply at the crook of Jordan’s neck.

“What the fuck,” John says, mostly to himself, but -- Jordan hears it, immediately turning and brightening with a desperate, “Hey,” and not looking at all caught-out. “Who’s this guy?”

The guy sways a little as he leans back, eyes closed and nearly stepping into John’s space before Jordan makes wide, panicked eyes and nearly drops the pitchers of beer to put himself between this dude and John. 

“Oh, shit,” the guy says, grinning and looking between Jordan and John. Eyeing their matching bond-bites. “Deadass, I thought you were an omega. Fuck if you don’t look like one, though.”

He’s leering. Literally _leering_. 

John isn’t prone to violence, not even on the ice, but if this guy keeps looking at Jordan like that? He might change his stance. If he were able to growl, he thinks this would be the time to do it.

“That’s literally what I told you, like five times, dude,” Jordan says.

“Bet I could still make you take it like an omega.”

“ALLLL _RIGHT_ ,” John says, draping himself over Jordan’s back, hands squeezing at Jordan’s hips. “One, he’s taken, so back off. Now.” He’s _this_ close to nibbling at Jordan’s bond-bite just to reinforce the statement, but he does have some self-control. “And two? I don’t know a single person who wants to be spoken to that way. Not even in a bar. Maybe show a little consideration, definitely some more respect.”

The guy looks a little shell-shocked, probably at being spoken to that way by an omega, but John’s not living in New York City to be treated by some backwoods ideologies. 

“If you’ll excuse us,” John says, gripping Jordan’s hips and steering him back towards the booth. He doesn’t dare let go, not after that little display, and -- fuck it, he’ll worry about the repercussions later. He bites at Jordan’s neck, worrying at the bond bite.

Jordan says, “Holy shit,” and beer sloshes dangerously in the pitchers, but Jordan steadies himself and John releases his skin.

John follows him closely back to the table, eyeing the way his spit glistens on Jordan’s skin. 

“Johnny,” Jordan’s saying, “Johnny, babe, that was so hot.” He barely sets the pitchers and glasses down on the table before he’s whirling around, hands cradling John’s face and looking at him with wild eyes, grinning. “Can I suck your dick? Like, right now.”

“O _kay_ ,” Cal says, guiding Jordan to sit in his vacated seat. “We’re gonna separate you two for a bit. What the fuck just happened?”

“A guy was hitting on Jordan,” John says, falling into the booth. Cal makes him scoot to the middle and boxes him in. “Thought he was an omega.”

“Alright,” Cal says, nodding in that serene beta-way he has, “Just so you know, I think people were filming. So. That’s gonna be all over Snapchat.”

“I don’t care,” John says. 

And. 

He really, _really_ doesn’t. Maybe if more people know, then shit like this won’t have to happen again, John won’t have to feel that sour little curdle of jealousy in his gut, and he can sleep peacefully knowing that Jordan can fend people off by proudly saying that he’s taken. 

“You don’t?” Jordan says, grinning wildly. “Really?”

John still feels like he could probably go a round with Zdeno Chara, so, “Yeah. Really.” Jordan looks like he’s trying to telepathically tell John that he’s going to suck his dick the second he’s allowed to, but John’s still feeling a little crazy with jealousy. 

Anders snorts. “Why didn’t you just tell him you were seeing someone?”

“Dude, I _did_ ,” Then he wheels on John, “I texted you an SOS like ten minutes ago! He’d been flirting with me since I was still in line to order!”

Barzy snickers, “I can’t believe he thought you were an omega.”

Jordan’s eyes go dark as he grins. “Only because I smell like Johnny.”

“Good,” John says.

“ _Gross_ ,” Cal corrects. “Super, super gross.”

John’s able to calm down after another beer and by then talk has gone from hockey to Christmas plans and back again, so he can just slump into the booth and eye the way Jordan’s eyes dance. He’s prattled on about what he’s gotten his nephew for Christmas and keeps trying to show pictures to the rookies who’re definitely too preoccupied with Instagram to truly appreciate the kid.

By the time it’s last call, John’s finally mellowed out a bit and -- he still doesn’t regret what he did.

Anders gets a Lyft for the kids and Cal claps Jordan on the shoulder, leaning in to say something in his ear that makes Jordan _blush_ and shove at him before he dances away to dodge a punch, laughing. Zeeker slaps John’s ass as he heads out and Hickey squeezes John’s shoulder, significantly more respectful.

“Have a good night, Mom and Dad,” Beau calls out.

John rolls his eyes and waves them all off, stepping into the cool night air with Jordan trailing behind him. Free from the choke of the bar, John’s able to finally scent the turned-on and keyed-up scent Jordan’s trying to stifle and thinking about _why_ has John getting angry all over again.

“Are you good to drive?” John asks Jordan.

Jordan shakes his head and John -- if John weren’t practically trembling with rage, he’d get them home.

“Lyft then? Or Long Island Rail Road?”

Again, Jordan shakes his head and John’s about to sigh but Jordan sidles in close, says, “C’mon, let’s go back to the garage,” all heavy-lidded. “I definitely can’t make it all the way home without popping my knot. We can get off a little bit, sober up, drive home.”

John shivers, barely able to stand at the headiness of Jordan’s voice, scent, presence. 

“Please, baby,” Jordan says, nuzzling at John’s neck, “I just wanna get my mouth on you. Let me make you come, you were so -- god, I love you so much, just let me --”

He starts to sink to his knees.

John says, “ _Jesus_ , Jordan,” around a hysterical laugh and hauls him back upright. “Okay. Okay, fine. We’ll walk back to the garage, but -- we’re not having sex in public.” He starts ushering Jordan in the direction of Barclays.

Laughing, Jordan turns and hooks a finger in John’s coat pocket, pulling him along. “Bet I could convince you.”

“I’m already --” John cuts himself off with a sharp noise and then says, “One of us should be the voice of reason.”

“Hey,” Jordan says, “ _Hey_. You -- you fucking bit me in the bar.” His eyes are all wild again when John spares a glance at his face. “You made sure everyone in there knew that they couldn’t touch me because I’m _yours_.” 

“Because you are.”

Jordan growls, this low, rumbly, possessive thing. His smile is crooked, gleaming under the streetlight. “Damn straight.” He makes a hurt noise and stumbles a little, says, “God, Johnny, you smell so good. I’m so hard.”

John sighs and picks up his walking-pace, trying to will away the arousal until they’re at least in the parking garage. Barclays comes into view and then it’s just a matter of crossing the street a couple of times, walking down the block towards Fort Greene and then -- there, _there_. John had parked in his usual spot and -- even under the harsh lights, he still can’t make out the gear bag in his back seat because his windows, thank _fuck_ , are tinted dark enough.

Jordan’s already giggling by the time John gets the door open and shoves Jordan in. “Climb into the backseat,” he says, “And keep it in your pants, I’m getting us out of this garage or the cameras’ll see just how long we were parked.”

Though his hands are still shaking a little, John’s able to slowly pull out of the spot, ease them out of the garage and out of the thick of Brooklyn. He keeps his eyes on the road, ignoring Jordan’s breathy little pained noises until he’s able to pull off into somewhere residential, somewhere the parking lot is open and not monitored and parks under a busted streetlight. He cuts the engine and crawls over the center console into Jordan’s open arms.

“Fuck,” Jordan says, “ _Fuck_ , come here, sweetheart,” and then he’s kissing John.

It’s quick and dirty and probably a little too spitty, but John doesn’t even _care_. He just wants Jordan on him and over him and _in him_. He whines, trying to scoot in closer without bumping his head on the roof of the car and then Jordan’s pulling back, saying, “Wait, wait, wait, turn around.”

John listens, obeys, because he wants it. 

He leans forward, completely uncomfortable, but manages to wedge himself sort of sideways to brace against the console and the passenger seat with his back nearly lined against the roof of the car but --

“ _Fuck_ ,” he harshes out, choking a bit when Jordan bares him and, without preamble, shoves his face into John’s ass. He’s licking and sucking and trying to _drown himself_ , because John’s soaked, fucking dying for it, and then he’s got three fingers shoved in, working John over until he’s shaking. 

Jordan’s growling, entirely too self-satisfied.

He’s just -- he’s so fucking good at it, knows exactly where to press to make John tremble. And it just -- it reminds John of his heats, of Jordan’s ruts, how they spend at least three or four orgasms with John sitting on Jordan’s face.

At the thought, he feels himself produce a truly embarrassing amount of slick, as if it wants that -- wants him to be in heat again even though he’d just gotten over it two weeks ago.

Jordan moans, slips his fingers out to fondle at John’s cock and balls, swiping his slick all over them.

John gives a broken, stuttered shout and falters.

“We should’ve put the seats down,” Jordan says after pulling back with a slurping noise. He’s still fingers-deep, leisurely now that he’s gotten his mouth on John’s ass.

John’s ready to _yell_.

Especially after Jordan withdraws his fingers.

John turns to look over his shoulder, definitely more than a little crazed. “Why’d you stop?”

“Let me suck your dick,” Jordan slurs, squeezing at John’s hips.

“How?” John says, “There’s no fucking room in here. This was a terrible idea.”

Jordan, giggling, just slaps at John’s ass and then scoots to the side. He urges John to lie back and strip off his pants, and even though the seatbelt's digging into his hip, John’s definitely more comfortable like this than trying to keep himself upright between the front and back seats. 

“See?” Jordan says, trying to settle between John’s legs, “It’s doable.”

John reiterates: “This was such a bad idea.”

He throws his arm over his eyes and -- groans when Jordan sucks him down, sliding two fingers back into his ass. 

Jordan’s moaning too, and when Jordan’s finally able to look down at him, his eyes are closed and his expression is soft, blissed. And like this? John could see how someone might mistake him for an omega. He looks so happy, smells it too, like nothing’s better than a dick in his mouth and the scent and feel of his mate beneath his hands.

“Oh, my god,” John breathes.

He tries shifting his hips, but Jordan bars his arm across them, makes a sharp noise in the back of his throat before growling and -- 

John comes, sharp and intense and out of fucking nowhere, surprised by it -- same as Jordan.

After trying to swallow, and letting half of John’s come dribble out, Jordan laughs, says, voice all fucked up, “Thanks for the warning.” He pulls back, sits up, looks completely fucking high. His eyes dance a bit as he runs a finger through the come, pressing a looping pattern into John’s skin. “You look good like this. Coming all over yourself like you just couldn’t help it.”

John’s face is on fire.

“Gonna leave this mess here, make you drive home like this,” Jordan says, petting up and down John’s thighs. “Then fuck you when we get there. Sound good?”

Shivering, John says something like, “Mmf,” and scrubs a hand over his face. His hole clenches.

With a sly, sly smirk, Jordan says, “Gotta add to it first.”

“God.” John tries not to shiver again -- fails -- and then spreads his legs a little wider. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” Jordan takes himself in hand, eyes intense as he gives a long, slow stroke. In the dim lighting, all John can really make out is the glistening head, the little pearl of precome that Jordan spreads all around. “Feel free to help out at any time,” Jordan breathily sasses.

John snorts. He’s lax, happy. “Just come on me already,” he says.

“That what you want?” 

At John’s nod, Jordan grins. He doesn’t say, “Well, if you insist,” but it’s written all over his face as he leans in close, presses a kiss to John’s cheek and braces himself over him with a hand against the window. He starts jerking himself off faster, letting his eyes rove over John sitting half-naked with his shirt rucked up over belly. The come’s drying, but still sticky, tacky, obvious. 

John, in a fit of that same possessiveness as earlier, swipes a hand through it and reaches between them for Jordan’s cock. He makes a punched out sound and -- John’s glad. He thinks, viciously, _Good_ , and tightens his grip, bats Jordan’s hand out of the way.

He looks up and -- 

With the way Jordan’s looking at him, John -- well. He feels a little bit ridiculous about acting insecure.

“Hey,” John says, offering an embarrassed little grin. It’s a simple statement, a sentiment that he knows is echoed, but still John has to say, “You’re mine.”

Jordan growls again, leans in for a kiss that John gladly obliges. “And you’re mine,” Jordan says, panting, “Fuck, Johnny. _Fuck_ \--”

With a pained little whine, Jordan reaches down to squeeze at the base of his dick, so John works him faster, suffused with pride and yawning arousal when Jordan starts to come, glossy streaks that stripe up John’s groin, his belly, his rucked up shirt. Jordan grunts, abs flexing as John keeps twisting his wrist, coaxing it out of him until Jordan grips his wrist to make him stop.

“Oh, my _god_ ,” Jordan breathes. He laughs, wipes his hand off on his button-down and says, “Will you marry me?”

John busts out laughing. “What the fuck, Eberle,” he says once he’s able to breathe. 

Luckily, Jordan’s laughing too, giggling a little as he smears the mess between them and presses kisses to the underside of John’s chin. “ _What_ ,” he says, only slightly sobered, “I really do think we should get married. The guys joke about it enough but -- rings, Johnny. We can have rings.”

And --

Something _does_ settle in John’s chest at that thought. No more noses sniffing around his alpha, mainly. 

Still, he’s going to give Jordan shit about this for approximately forever. “This is the epitome of romance,” John says. He smiles when Jordan snorts, and rolls his eyes, says, “Ask me again when you’re sober, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Jordan leans up for a kiss and then back, trying to tuck his still-dripping dick back into his pants. “Just so you know, I already have the rings,” he says, “I was gonna wait ‘til Christmas, but I know you don’t like surprises so.”

Which is -- actually pretty sweet of him, honestly. 

“So this was more of a pre-proposal?” John asks, trying to tug his slacks back on. He definitely won’t be able to get them up over his ass unless he’s standing up, but he’s honestly a little scared to get out of the car after all the noise they made.

“Yeah,” Jordan says. 

He opens the door, letting in a cool blast of air, and then comes around to open the other one for John. Without a word, he blocks any curious eyes from John as he slips out and helps him get his pants back on correctly. 

“So….you wanna tell me what you’re gonna say?” Jordan prods, caging John against the driver side door. “Because if you’re gonna say no because it’s too soon, I can definitely try to wait a little longer.”

“Key word there is ‘try.’”

“ _Babe_.”

“Mm?” John’s honestly enjoying the feeling of being a little trapped, all of Jordan’s focus completely centered on him. 

“Will you say yes if I ask you to marry me?” Jordan asks, the hint of a whine edging in.

Laughing, John nods. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?!” Jordan bounces, nearly knocking his face on John’s chin, and his scent sweetens, deepens, and --

“Yeah,” John affirms, smiling softly at his alpha.

 _There_ it is. Jordan’s scent goes scorchingly bright like a forest full of evergreens and then he’s kissing John all over his face, smiling too much into the one he lands on John’s lips, and happy tears start gathering in his eyes because he’s a fucking _sap_.

“Alright, alright,” John says, “Can we go home now? Didn’t you make a promise about something? Or did I just imagine that.”

Jordan snorts a laugh and shoves John towards the door, squeezing at his hip. “Gonna knot you ‘til you’re crying too,” he says, voice nearly a growl, rough from emotion now instead of just the dick-sucking.

“Uh huh,” John says as he climbs into the front seat. “Sure you are.”


End file.
